


Two Seater

by fluxy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint likes grease and so does Phil, Frottage, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Motorcycle Appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluxy/pseuds/fluxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil and Lola visit the Tower, and Clint gives his motorcycle an introduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Seater

**Author's Note:**

> So, my very first fic on ao3 ever. Enjoy!

Clint always found a particular type of comfort when he hid himself away in a garage. He could never blame Stark for bustling around his labs while he tinkered in solitude. It wasn’t a lonely feeling, not when you were surrounded by so many bolts to tighten and wrenches to crank. The archer tuned into that very noise as he worked on the rear disk break of his motorcycle. He learned quickly that proper car for a bike, especially in Stark’s garage, was no easy task. The Tower’s private space for their vehicles held every tool and basic part they could need, and Clint like doing it all himself.

 

There’s a sudden damper on his spirits, however, when he hears a distant car approaching down the tunnel to the garage. Clint snatches a rag off the cart, sighing while his wipes his hands free of some dirt and grime. He catches a glimpse of hot rod red turn the corner and realizes he the car isn’t familiar to the garage, just to him.

 

He stands up as Phil parks his corvette a few yards away. The agent’s sunglasses do well enough to hide his eyes, but not the subtle, surprised smile threatening to tug at his lips. “You’re here.” Phil noted, his voice a pleasant echo against the concrete walls. The blond arched a brow.

 

“Yeah? Where’d you think I was?”

 

With a careful close of Lola’s door, Phil steps forward, removing his glasses. “Natasha implied a drag to a new mall somewhere.”

 

Barton huffs, shaking his head. “Got Thor to replace me on that front.” He smirked. It falls away as he catches his handler’s stare focused in his direction. It was a different feeling lately-- at least, a different feeling when they were both off duty. Clint’s sharp eyes never miss a thing (But perhaps his imagination had developed a habit of interpreting the information as it pleased). He watches Phil’s gaze catch on to his dirtied old tank top, once white but now dingy with used oil and grease.

 

Any further thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Coulson’s expensive shoes moving across the shiny flooring towards the tool boxes. Clint realizes then why the agent was at the Tower in the first place.

 

“--Tony said those boxes were for you?” He remembers, gesturing despite Phil’s turned back. The older man is already opening one up, removing something from inside to examine it. The archer stands in place and idly wonders if he should bother finishing up, or simply except he was about to make any excuse not to leave.

 

“Are there any more?” Coulson asked. Clint ran a hand through his tousled hair thoughtfully.

 

“Don’t think so. What are you working on?” He countered curiously. His handler put the hunk of metal down on top of a work bench and suddenly put his hands on the front of his jacket. Clint stared. Was he--?

 

Clint Barton was a teaser. There were rare instances when anyone could best him at blushing games and even rarer when those winners were Phil Coulson. But he always seemed to win, even with a simple shrug of his shoulders out of his suit jacket. He was practically naked in the middle of the garage and Clint was the only one there to relish it.

 

“I consulted Stark about a serpentine belt issue.” Phil admitted, tugging off his tie as well.

 

The blond turned back to his bike, throwing a leg over the seat. He plops down, reaching for a gauge. “Need any help?” He tossed over his shoulder, casual tone forced.

 

“No. Yes. There should be a tensioner here somewhere.”

 

“I can ask Jarvis.”

 

Coulson denies him a reply for a long while, though the archer hardly minded. A few minutes pass as Clint tinkers, then reaches for a part over his handlebars, then tinkers and reaches again. He’s nearly done, save for a quick coat of wax he decides he can apply now instead of after lunch. He likes this, he thinks. Whatever time he can share with his handler off-duty was time he would take gladly.

 

Barton sets down his wrench just as Phil reaches for a smaller one on Clint’s cart. The archer’s head snapped up at the older man’s proximity.

 

“What are you working on?” Phil voiced, as if there was no issue at all. One brow arched, his outstretched hand lingering to rest on the edge of their tools. Clint blinked.

 

“I’m, uh, mounting this.” He explained, gesturing to the device coming along between his handle bars. It’s not the only nifty feature customized just for his bike. “It’ll detect a few more things than the last gauge. Stark’s idea.”

 

“Does it link into his systems?”

 

“It’s got limits, but--” Clint stares at Phil’s hand as it brushes a thumb across the screen, coaxing the dim light to brighten and activate. There’s a dark smudge of something already dirting Phil’s wrist. It looks bizarre streaked across prim and proper Agent Coulson’s skin. Somewhere behind him, Phil’s other hand presses down to rest on the back of Clint’s seat.

 

“Automatic start?” He asks, far too close to Barton’s ear.

 

“Practically-- drives itself...”

 

“While you shoot.”

 

Clint swallows when he feels it, the rev of his engine suddenly bringing the bike to life. Phil pulls his thumb away from the screen and slowly wraps his fingers around the throttle. He gives it twist. The resulting purr vibrates through Clint more pleasurably than it should. It’s startling, to turn his head and only meet eye-level with the top two buttons of Coulson’s crisp dress shirt undone, to see his collar bone and neck and throat so up close. Phil stares back, his focus laced with the intensity reserved for Hawkeye and his Handler. The combination makes the hair on his neck stand.

 

Clint catches Phil’s lips first, head turning to bring them together hungrily. Phil responds with a deep, pleased sound at the back of his throat. It’s quiet, reminding Clint of his bike’s  engine. The hand at his throttle lifts to cup the archers jaw as he takes control, and Clint finds no issue in letting him. Phil takes his bottom lip between his teeth while he drags his thumb over Barton’s strong jawline, pulling it back as he looks at him with heavy eyes. Whatever smudge of grease that was on Barton’s chin was now on Phil’s. Cool air catches on Clint’s teeth making him suck in a breath.

 

He can hardly stand it.

 

Still straddling his bike, Clint grabs ahold of the front of his handler’s shirt, dragging him back down for another kiss. Phil complies, licking his way past Barton’s lips with messy sounds that echo in his ears, reaching all the way down between his legs. The archer groans as he presses his groin to the gas tank, hips taking mind of their own as they give a short, languid roll. His eyes are shut when Phil’s leg rises over the back of Clint’s bike. He takes his seat behind his asset, the press of his own crotch to Barton’s ass shoving him further against the tank. The agent is rewarded with a faint whimper.

 

Clint arches his back to drape himself over his handler’s shoulder when he’s met with his voice against his ear. It’s hot, his breath sending a shiver down his spine.

 

“I’ve always wondered what you looked like, working down here on your bike alone.” Phil murmurs. Deft hands curl around Barton’s bare arms, trailing down inch after inch of glistening skin until they guide his hands onto each handle bar. The archer grips them tight, eyes still closed. He feels Coulson’s smirk against his ear as the engine revs once more.

 

“Phil--” Clint is cut off when he belt is quickly undone with one hand. His mouth feels dry as the hard outline of Phil’s cock presses itself closer between his ass cheeks. The handler is rolling his hips, he realizes, slowly and rhythmically to the tune his bike’s engine. Phil’s hand undoes his fly and shoves past his waistband, drawing a loud moan from the archer. “ _Fuck._ ”

 

Phil strokes in time with his thrusts, thumb circling Clint’s head with every other pass. It follows the curve of his asset’s cock, making sure to smear every bead of precome thoroughly. Clint can only arch some more, grip accidentally twisting the throttle again when Phil gives his own wrist a rough twist. The blond’s breaths are reduced to short pants.

 

“Faster...” He huffs. He has no idea whether or not Coulson will spare him even that request. Phil’s free arm wraps around Clint’s waist in a vice, keeping him immobile as every exhale hits the blond’s neck. “More--”

 

The older agent twists his wrist again, upstrokes tugging Clint’s cock relentlessly until he’s thrusting with frantic gasps into Phil’s hand. He spills over his handler fingers with a moan, head falling back on his shoulder. Phil jerks him through it until every last drop is spent and split all over Clint’s bike. But before the archer can decide how to return the favor he’s being shoved forward. Clint grabs the handles, bracing himself with surprise.

 

Phil grips his neck is, strongly but carefully, keeping him still as the handler has his way with finishing himself off. Clint is shoved forward with every rough buck of Phil’s hips until the agent finally lets out a long groan. Clint can’t feel him come, just the light twitch of his handler’s cock through his slacks. The hold on Barton’s neck releases.

 

Turning off the bike, the two remain seated in the quiet of the garage, their heavily breaths evident without any sound to cover them up. Clint leans draped over the front of his bike for a few moments.

 

“I like it.” Phil suddenly utters, voice unnaturally even for someone who just dry-humped his asset on a motorcycle. The archer was still catching his breath.

 

His touch runs up and down along the thin cotton of Clint’s shirt.

 

“Yeah? Maybe you’ll let me take _you_ for a ride.”


End file.
